


Zevran Arainai: Memoirs of an Assassin

by Proud Rose (The_Author)



Series: The Natia Timeline [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Dubious Consent, Multi, Murder, Past Child Abuse, Prostitution, Violence, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-03-26 03:56:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3836122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Author/pseuds/Proud%20Rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a letter to Taliesen, Zevran attempts to justify his choice of leaving Antiva for Ferelden. He was the orphaned son of a prostitute who was sold to the Antivan Crows as a child, he was trained in seduction and murder. He had no choice - none - and if he tells himself this enough times maybe he will even start to believe it. - a rewrite of John Cleland's <i>Fanny Hill, or Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

My dearest Taliesen,

I know you must still be angry with me. If it makes you feel any better, Ferelden smells like wet dog. I suffer almost daily by staying here. No matter how many times I wash my clothing, the stench remains. Though perhaps you might set aside your gloating and let me offer some explanation. I did not come here simply to spite you. I had no choice. My whole life has been leading up to this mission. Hating all long unnecessary preambles, I shall quickly explain my circumstances. I was born to a prostitute, a Dalish woman who had left her clan to join her lover in Rialto, and whom both subsequently died, leaving me to live on her pimp's charity. Which, as it turned out, proved very small indeed, seeing as how she sold me at the age of seven to the Antivan Crows. This you know. You were already there when they led me into the dormitory I was to sleep in. We shared a bunk for ten years and, when we grew out of childhood, shared more than that. I sometimes wonder if we would still be friends if circumstances and a desire to survive had not made us cling to one another. Would we even still like each other?

When I was sixteen and you nearly eighteen, the Crows separated us. While they trained you in all the martial skills needed for a master assassin, my education took a different turn. Though you often sent me letters bragging about your accomplishments, I spoke little of my own. Well, now I shall speak to you of all of it, and I will hold nothing back for modesty's sake, if I had any modesty left to salvage. Which I do not, thankfully, or my life would be very dull indeed. I still had my lessons in swordplay, in poisons, in stealth, but now the guildmaster thought I might be better suited to a different, and infinitely more pleasurable, art. I had grown from a gangly child into a rather good-looking specimen, if I say so myself, and you humans have such silly notions about elves that work to an assassin's benefit.

I was taken from Antiva City to Rialto, the city of my birth though what little I remembered of it did not span beyond the four walls of the brothel's courtyard. Rialto is a den of sin and vice, gambling and prostitution its main attractions. Which is precisely the reason why it was so suited to my education. There is a veneer of sophistication that coats Rialto's seedy underbelly, all in attempt to mimic the great Antiva City and give visiting nobles a ready excuse as to why they would ever willingly step inside the city's walls. I had seen many gentlewomen pass by in grand open carriages from the window of our dormitory, but I thought the ladies of Rialto to be even grander. Their velvet capelets and feathered hats and rouge-colored cheeks seemed very fine to me, though I am sure anyone with a modicum of taste would find them quiet vulgar. Ah well, I am vulgar and I like vulgar women. I like velvet and leather and feathers and ostentatious ornamentation. I suppose a whore's son could be no different.

I was taken to an inn and, to my utter disappointment, was led by my handler past the tavern and up the stairs to a small room where Madame Roux was waiting. She was squat, red-faced old whore -- at least fifty years old -- and bedecked in a red satin frock, a red velvet mantle despite the summer heat, and a heavy gold necklace studded with rubies. It was her trademark, you see, and she would continue to ride that horse until it dropped dead. The woman looked at me as if she would devour me with her eyes, staring at me from head to foot, without the least regard to my confusion. The Crows had not told me anything except that I had much to learn before they would give me my first mission. Then she spoke, with the greatest demureness: "I think he'll do just fine."

My handler left and I was alone with the woman. She told me that the Crows often sent her their Chicks to learn the finer points of seduction. I was sad and lonely at the thought of being taken from you, but at this I perked up considerably. I was sixteen, and sex was frequently on my mind even if I had not yet had the pleasure of indulging. I had imagined for myself the role of the dashing Antivan rake, seducer of women, whom no good lady is safe from. My terrible taste in novels may have had something to do with this. Either way, I was happy at this turn of events and... eager to start my lessons, so to speak.

I stepped inside her carriage and her coachman drove us to a bordello on Via de Fiume. It was a grand little house, a favorite among the nobility. The back parlor that I was led into seemed to me magnificently furnished, for I had never known other than our sparse dormitory. There were two gilt mirrors, a magnificent mahogany buffet, and a crystal chandelier that caught the candlelight. Altogether it persuaded me that I was in the company of only the finest whores.

Here my new mistress began her part, telling me that I must have good spirits, and learn to be free with her. She was no Crow, there was no need for the meek obedience our masters required of us. Presently, Madame Roux rang the bell and in stepped a pretty elf by the name of Phoebe, whose business it was to break young fillies to the mounting-block. I knew none of this; my knowledge was restricted to what Madame Roux told me. She apologized profusely about the lack of beds and explained that I would have to share with the beautiful Phoebe, an experienced prostitute who did not mind. Recruits often bunked together, sometimes three or four would pile into one bed -- you and I still slept together, even after all the other recruits from our year had long since died and we had our choice of beds -- but the girls all slept in their own dormitory in another building. This would mark the first time that I would bed down with a member of the fairer sex. I was nervous, but tried to keep my voice cool and aloof. They, of course, saw right through the act, but pretended not to notice for my benefit.

After introductions had been made, Madame Roux rang for dinner. We ate in the parlor instead of the dining hall where my mistress's "does", as she termed them, took their meals. Conversation was chiefly kept up by the two madams, which was heavy in double-meanings that I did not yet understand. It was here they agreed that I should keep myself up and out of sight for a few days, till clothing could be procured for me. The Crows do not waste money on recruits unless they were sure they would get a return investment, and my tattered clothing reflected this. But the truth was Madame Roux did not want any of her customers to see or talk to me until she had secured a good market for my virginity, which she could sniff out like a mabari on the hunt.

After supper I was shown to bed and, I admit, I was as nervous as a bride. Alas, I was not born the great charmer that I am today. It took years of training, of learning, which began that night. Phoebe noticed my reluctance to strip down to my smalls in front of her. She laughed and in a fit of injured pride I shucked off my trousers, only to lose my courage and hurried to bury beneath the quilt and out of sight. She slipped in beside me, pressing close. Phoebe claimed to be twenty-five; she could have been older, she could have been younger. She had a face that made it hard to tell. She was beautiful though, and for a woman in her profession that is all that matters.

No sooner had she laid down, Phoebe -- who never missed an opportunity when an occasion of lewdness presented itself -- turned to me, wrapping her arms around my waist and eagerly kissing me. Though terrified and giddy at the thought of what I was sure was about to happen, I was determined not to look the fool and returned her kiss with all the fervor of a sixteen year old boy. Encouraged by this, her hands became extremely free, and wandered over my whole body, with touches, squeezes, pressures, that surprised me with their novelty. The flattering praises she intermingled with these invasions were shushed against my lips, her voice soft and lulling like a horsemaster with a spooked mare. I was as tame and passive as she could wish. Every part of me was open and exposed to the licentious courses of her hands, which, like fire, ran over my whole body and thawed all coldness as they went.

Her nails scraped down my chest before slipping down lower, over the smooth lines of my stomach, before grasping hold of my cock, already hard and aching. Her simple touch sent a jolt of lightning straight down my spine and I nearly came then and there. Her fingers played across the skin, teasing and feather soft when all I wanted was for her to take me in hand, but she was not content with my cock. She slid her hand even further until she brushed against my entrance and before I could say anything, Phoebe forced the introduction of a finger inside. I confess, I shrieked like I was being murdered. I had vague notions of how two men might spend their time together, but the idea of a _woman_ ever attempting such a thing upon me was a completely foreign concept. It is almost funny to think that a Crow could ever be so innocent. Nor had I ever imagined that I might enjoy it. I had not given much thought to men; not even you, my dear Taliesen, would spark my imagination until much later. At that age, I was completely transfixed on the female form. It was a mystery to me, one that wet my curiosity and appetite. Had Phoebe not proceeded such a violation with her tender caresses to enflame me, I would have jumped out of the bed and cried for help against such strange assaults. Of course, this had little to do with my own pleasure. She had wanted to gage my reaction. Had someone been there before her? Was I indeed a virgin as Madame Roux had guessed? I did not yet know it, but my mistress had great plans for me.

I quickly smothered the sound, unsure of what I should do but not wanting to upset her. She might stop if I did. Her lascivious touches had lighted up a fire that ran through my veins, but fixed with violence to where her finger continued its progress. Her other hand continued to squeeze my cock, her lips pressing bruising kisses against my face, and her finger did not halt until I whined in pain and discomfort. "Oh, what a darling creature, you are," she breathed against me. "Maker, if I was a man, I would ruin you. I would make you feel so good." Only to interrupt herself with more fiery kisses.

For my part, I felt confused and not at all like I was myself. Like I was someone else who had somehow wound up inside the body of Zevran Arainai, quite on accident. My heated and alarmed senses were in a tumult that robbed me of all thought. Tears of pleasure streaked down my face. Phoebe, to whom all forms of pleasure were known and familiar, found that breaking in virgins brought her a particular sense of gratification. Well, you know what they say: do what you love, and Phoebe loved despoiling and perverting the innocent. Having completed the task that Madame Roux had set her out to do and discovering that I was indeed untouched _everywhere_ , Phoebe pushed down the quilt and rolled down my straining smallclothes to watch my cock bounce free. I saw myself stretched naked while I had no power or sense to oppose it. Even my glowing blushes expressed more desire than modesty.

"Do not think to hide all these treasures from me," she whispered and took hold of my hand. She pulled it between her legs, guiding my fingers to breach the hot cavity, where they were easily received. As soon as she felt them within her, she moved herself to and fro, with so rapid a friction that it was not long before she shuddering and cumming hard against me. The sight alone, of her breasts quivering, the feel of slick gushing over my hand, was enough to leave me undone. I followed her, painting my own stomach and hers white. As we came down, I withdrew my hand, now wet and clammy, and Phoebe leaned forward to give me a kiss that seemed to exhale her soul through her lips. She pulled herself from the bed to fetch a cloth from the wash basin that sat on the bureau and returned to wipe us both down. I was asleep within minutes.

In the morning, I awoke at about ten, perfectly happy and refreshed. Phoebe was up before me and asked me in the kindest manner how I had rested, if I was ready for breakfast. I was already half in love with her and followed her down into the back parlor like a puppy. I had expected no less than to be told off, if not chided, for my late rising, but Madame Roux -- who was already sitting and waiting for us -- did nothing but compliment me on my pure and fresh look. After eating, a maid came in with my new clothes.

Imagine yourself as a recruit once more, with barely enough food in your belly and only old, threadbare clothes that you have long since outgrown to keep you warm, and you will understand how excited I was to look at the skin-tight leather vest, the navy blue silk shirt, the sinful trousers. I thought they were the finest set of clothes that I had ever seen and they were mine. I did not realize just how vulgar they were. They were produced specifically to cut an enticing figure for Madame Roux had already found a buyer for my virginity. The gentleman had, of course, insisted on checking out the goods, but also -- in the case an agreement could be reached -- the immediate surrender of said goods. He had concluded, very wisely, that a brothel might not be the safest place to trust the keeping of such a perishable commodity as my virginity.

The care of dressing, and tricking me out for the market, was then left to Phoebe. As I viewed myself in the glass I was, no doubt, too natural, too artless, to hide my childish joy at the change. I was indeed a very handsome young man-- still am, in fact. I might be short even for an elf, and while that might not win me favors with my own kind, it suits humans just fine. My hair was longer than it is now, do you remember? It might have made me look girlish, if it were not for the strong cut of my jaw and the hard planes of a body worked to the bone. You are no doubt complaining about my ego even now as you read this, but it is not my fault I am so handsome. Should I be ungrateful to the Maker, and to the body to which I owe many blessings of pleasure and fortune, through some affectation of modesty? I think not.

Well then, now dressed as I was, and little did it then enter into my head that all this fine attire was no more than decking the victim out for sacrifice, Madame Roux returned to the parlor and complimented me on my new clothes, which she was not ashamed to say, fitted me as if I had worn nothing but the finest all my life. And I was silly enough to swallow it. At the same time, she presented to me a gentleman whom she claimed to be an associate. I bowed, a little clumsy perhaps, for I had not yet been taught the finer points of etiquette.

The man was nearly sixty years old, short and ill-made, with a yellow cadaverous hue to his skin, great goggling eyes that stared as if he was being strangled, and breath like a dragon's. He had a peculiar ghastliness in his grin that made him perfectly frightful, if not dangerous. He was so blind to his own startling deformities as to think himself born for pleasing, and that no man or woman could look at him without falling madly in love. In consequence of this, he lavished upon any poor wretch who managed to swallow their distaste and pretend that he inspired nothing but ardor in them, while treating those who could not hide their true feelings most brutally. This then was the monster to which my mistress had bargained my body with. Although the Crows paid her quite handsomely to teach their young Chicks, Madame Roux had stumbled upon a way to earn a little extra on the side. The terms of the agreement, which I would later come to find out, was fifty andris up front and another hundred upon deflowering. She made me stand up before him, turn around, remarked to him the curve of my arse. She jockeyed me about, which the man only answered in gracious nods of approval while leering at me. I sometimes stole a corner glance at him and, seeing the ugliness on his face and in his eager stare, quickly turned away again, which he attributed to nothing more than virginal modesty. I had assumed he owned part of the brothel, and therefore required inspection of any goods that passed through. Never once did it cross my mind that I would have to satisfy the lusts of any man, much less one so odious.

The gentleman stepped outside for a moment with my mistress and settled the contract. He was so eager for me to be put in his possession that he insisted that there be no delays. Madame Roux tried to explain that I was not sufficiently ripened; that I was too green and untamed, having been only a scarce twenty-four hours since stepping foot inside the brothel. He refused to listen to such arguments, and so my mistress came back inside and explained that she must depart on urgent business, and would I please keep her associate company until she returned?

"Be very good, be very tender to the sweet child," Madame Roux said to the old gentleman and out she went, leaving me staring, with my mouth open, shocked by her sudden abandonment.

We were now alone, and I knew then that something terrible was about to happen. I was so afraid, without a precise notion of why, and what I had to fear shambled in to sit next to me on the settee. Without further ceremony or preamble, he flung his arms about my neck and drew me forcibly into his lap. I struggled against him and his pestilent kisses and groping hands. He was forced to push me down, using his own weight to keep me pinned, and I felt a hand attempt to worm its way between my thighs. The next time he leaned down for a kiss, I bit him on the cheek and only let go when blood filled my mouth. He howled and screamed and then I was falling from the settee, my nose throbbing where he punched me clear across the face.

Madame Roux raced back inside. She looked at our bloody forms and was moved by some spirit of compassion-- or perhaps it was guilt. She informed the gentleman that damaging her goods was strictly forbidden and would not hear any fumbling excuse from his lips that spoke of how I had attacked him first. Even though her scheme was quite plain to me by then, I had not the heart or spirit to hate her. She had still treated me better than our own guildmaster ever had, fed me good food and clothed me. I felt guilty, even, that I had ruined her plans. Not only had she been kind to me, she was my teacher; my life belonged to her, just as it belonged to the guildmaster. Running away never entered my mind. The Crows would surely hunt me down and kill me. No one leaves the Antivan Crows alive.

The gentleman kicked up a fuss at first, demanded a refund of the fifty andris he had already given her, but he was swiftly escorted from the premises by a burly looking dwarf with a maul nearly a foot taller than he was. Madame Roux bandaged my bloodied nose and helped me upstairs to my room, where she gave me a bit of elfroot and put me to bed. I feared what Madame Roux might say to our guildmaster in regards to my conduct, but she was not overly concerned by what had happened. She was still ahead by fifty andris, and I was still in possession of my virginity, which meant it could be sold all over again.


	2. Chapter 2

While Madame Roux set out in search of a new buyer, Phoebe brought in tutors to refine my manners so that I might blend with the highest lords or the lowest peasants, whichever the Crows might require of me to fulfill a contract. I was taught a wide range of subjects, though there was never any depth to my lessons. They were designed to allow me the ability to converse with anyone about anything, but not to actually _know_ what I was talking about. I gleaned the works of master artists, learned of architecture and music and literature, taught finances and history. My knowledge is superficial at best. It would take years to learn more than that and the Crows were not paying Madame Roux to turn me into a scholar. I was meant for pleasure. The one subject that I was forced to master was politics. I had to memorize entire family trees and study treaties. After all, the Crows wouldn't want me to accidentally assassinate the wrong person.

I soon grew restless. Despite being kept away out of sight of the brothel's clientele, confined to my room for most of the day, I never before experienced as much freedom as I had while staying at Madame Roux's. Here, I was not roused from my bed in the dark early morning hours with a slap to my face, I was not overcome with chills and nausea from constant training, I was not denied food or beaten or made to stand in one spot until my legs swelled up. I was fed the finest, clothed in the finest, petted and gushed over and complimented by the brothel's whores. I drank in their attention like a man dying of thirst, trailing after them with a joke on my lips so that they would smile and laugh and play with me. But I wanted more. I could see the bright lights of the city from outside my window and I yearned to experience it. I wanted to go where I wanted, do what I wanted-- a thought that would have been unthinkable to a Chick like myself just a few short months ago.

It was not long before Madame Roux had secured a new gentleman for me, a man whom she would only refer to as "Lord B." from Val Royeaux. He would be arriving in Rialto in a fortnight and, having done business with him before, she assured me that he was experienced and generous with lovers and felt quite safe in offering up that trinket of mine, which held so great an imaginary value in the minds of many men. I, however, could not be satisfied with her placating words, though because of the indebtedness I felt toward her I dared not speak my suspicions aloud. My experiences with the Madame's "associate" had left me wary and, one bright afternoon, I snuck inside her chamber in hopes of finding out more about this mysterious Lord B.

Prior to this, the only practical experience I had with sex was with Phoebe, who swallowed her vast appetites and restricted herself to shoving my face between her thighs until my jaw and cheeks and tongue grew too tired to carry on. She would often reciprocate with a handjob, but our couplings went no further, all in an attempt to keep me as innocent as possible. But I could not remain in such a house as that without being an eye-witness to much more than just the simple pleasures I had experienced.

As I was rifling through Madame Roux's letters, I heard the turn of the doorknob. I flew into the wardrobe, leaving a small crack to which I could peek out of, and saw the venerable old whore herself hand-in-hand with a tall, brawny sailor. I prayed to Andraste to keep the Madame away from the closet, but I had no reason to fear. She was so entirely taken up by the gentleman in her arms that she could not spare a thought to anything else.

She heaved her great figure onto the foot of the bed and her paramour, who seemed to be a man of few words and much stomach, sat down beside her. He pulled at her stays with little preamble, and her breasts soon broke from their confinement. A more enormous pair did my eyes never see, they sagged low and were flagging soft; older women have a charm all of their own, quite distinct from younger girls. The sailor certainly seemed to think so. He pawed at them, seeking in vain to confine or cover them, but they spilled from his palms. Madame Roux sighed in pleasure and laid out across the bed as he pulled up her petticoats and tossed them over her head without a care. She giggled and pulled down the fabric just low enough to peek over the hem, her meaty thighs held open and her wide open-mouthed quim, over-shaded with a grizzly bush, seemed to quiver like a beggar's wallet for the man's attention. But my gaze was soon torn away from her when the man unbuttoned his trousers.

Madame Roux's sturdy stallion pulled out his cock-- naked, stiff, and erect, of a size I had never seen before and which I stared at with increasing fascination. He stroked it, played with it, but soon it was torn from my hungry gaze when the man threw himself upon her. With his back now towards me, I could only observe the way in which he moved in her. The bed shook, the curtains rattled, and they sighed and murmured, heaved and panted in accompaniment to the action. It lit a fire in me, made every vein in my body burn.

Whilst they were in the heat of the moment, I stole a hand down the front of my breeches to quench the lust that stung at my flesh. My fingers ran along my cock, but soon curiosity got the better of me. I wondered what it felt like to be penetrated with an instrument as large as the sailor's. My fingers shifted lower, piercing the small entrance as Phoebe had done. It burned, but not unpleasantly so, and I was driven to push deeper. Still, I could not imagine anything larger than a finger in there. I feared it might kill me.

The bed grew silent and still. Soon the sailor dismounted and the old lady sprang up, with all the vigor of a young maid. The moment they were both dressed, they went out lovingly together, still kissing and pawing at each other, and, seizing my chance, I stole softly up to my own room. Phoebe looked up from where she sat at the little vanity, turning away from her beautiful face to take in my flushed complexion. "Where have you been?" She asked.

I immediately launched into a recital of the scene I had just witnessed, which Phoebe could not listen to without breaking into peals of laughter more than once, and my embarrassed way of relating matters only heightened the joke. Eventually, I admitted I was worried about what would happen if a man as large as Madame Roux's sailor attempted to bed me.

At this, Phoebe redoubled her laughter, and while I had expected a very serious discussion about my apprehensions, she only told me that she had never heard of anyone dying from a cock up the arse before. Though there was that incident some years back wherein an elderly gentleman expired just at the moment when he _expired_ , leaving the poor prostitute trapped beneath his rapidly cooling corpse. This, of course, did nothing for my fears and merely added to them.

Sensing that perhaps she might be making things worse, Phoebe asked me if I knew Orlando. Of course I knew Orlando. He was a human, only a little older than me, very pretty, and we had taken to playing Diamondback whenever I managed to catch him in-between customers. "He keeps a Qunari lover, a Tal-Vashoth mercenary originally from Rivain who visits at least twice a week," said Phoebe. "Always at five o'clock in the afternoon. The next time he comes you'll see for yourself just how well a man can take it, no matter the size."

At five o'clock exactly the next day, Phoebe came to me as I sat alone reading in our room and beckoned me to follow her.

We went down the back stairwell very softly where she led me to a dark closet filled with old furniture and some cases of liquor. She drew me in after her and once the door had been fastened behind us, there was no light except that which streamed through a partition in the wall where the wood panels had warped from age. I could see clearly into Orlando's room.

The Qunari was the first person I saw. His grey, heavily muscled back was directly towards me, but then the door opened and in came Orlando. At the noise, the Qunari turned to meet him with an expression that spoke of only the greatest tenderness and satisfaction.

Orlando led the Qunari to a couch and poured him a glass of wine. They kissed softly and the mercenary asked him quiet questions in broken Trade, before helping Orlando out of his shirt. They pulled at their clothes until the Qunari's trousers hung loose on hips and Orlando stood in nothing but his smallclothes. The mercenary gave a distracting kiss while his clever hands stole the small white breechcloth from the human's body. Orlando, long familiar with his lover's humor, laughed and broke away. He stood stark naked, his black hair loose about his white shoulders. He was tall and thin and I could not help but admire his figure and the trail of hair that ran from his belly down his thighs where his cock was nestled. It was a pretty thing, similar in size to my own so that it did not seem so unmanageable as the sailor's.

The Qunari was another matter.

He stood gazing, transfixed by Orlando's beauty. His eager eyes devoured him, his hands wandered, on the hunt for pleasure, over every inch of Orlando's body. In the meantime, I could not help but observe the swell of the Qunari's trousers. From the bulge, I knew he must be very large and I was burning with curiosity to see it for myself. My wish was soon granted and the trousers slipped, falling from his hips to pool at his feet.

The Qunari looked to be in his twenties. He was tall and well-limbed, his form heavily built and broad. The horns which so marked his race were short and twisted. His face was not remarkable in any way, but for his eyes-- they were large, black, and sparkling. But it was his cock that stole my attention. It was almost frightening in its size; far larger than the one belonging to Madame Roux's sailor. Nearly a weapon. It would be impossible to survive such an encounter with it. And yet... Orlando was already leaning back against the couch, legs spread, his fingers wet with oil and working furiously inside him. The Qunari added his own, pushing his fingers alongside Orlando's until the human was left gaping.

Phoebe gave me a little nudge and whispered if I was still worried, but I was too engrossed by the scene in front of me to pay attention to what she said.

The Qunari knelt between his thighs and I wondered at how his cock could possibly fit without splitting Orlando in two, but the human didn't appear worried at all. He lay smiling, and the Qunari himself looked upon his cock with some pleasure, guiding it with his hand to the inviting entrance. On the first thrust, it lodged halfway, but there it stuck. He drew it out, coating it in oil, and pushed in again, this time with more ease until Orlando had taken it all the way to the hilt. Orlando gave a deep sigh, but there wasn't a hint of pain in his voice. At the first thrust, he heaved, at first gently, and then in regular cadence until it became too violent for any sort of order or measure. Their motions were rapid, their kisses fierce and fervent, and both seemed out of themselves.

"Oh! Oh! I can't bear it! It's too much! Harder, harder..." Orlando keened, before even those few words died away to broken murmurs. He quaked, coming hard, painting his lover's stomach white. The Qunari soon followed after, shoving forward until there was not an inch of space between them. They laid there for a moment, their breath intermingling as they gasped for air, before the Qunari pulled away and I could see Orlando's hole glowing a deep red even as the mercenary's spend slipped from his body. Orlando refused to allow the Qunari to get too far and slipped his arms around his neck and allowed the big warrior to pull him up. The expression on his face was anything but pained; there was a fondness in Orlando's eyes as he clung to his grey-skinned lover.

My fears had given way to lust. My blood was boiling hot and in that moment I would have freely given my virginity to the first man who presented himself. It is a stupid thing, virginity. I have never understood why so many of my sex put such stock into it. Nor why it should only matter if I had ever lain with men. No one cares what my experiences are with women, only whether a cock had ever breached my arse before them. I will be the first to brag about my prowess -- and I have certainly deflowered my fair share of virgins -- but even I am not so arrogant as to think my cock possesses any sort of magical powers, other than providing only the most exquisite pleasure, of course.

We stumbled from our hiding spot, Phoebe's legs were shaking and I attempted to hobble up the stairs hunched over with an erection. We were so overcome, so inflamed, that we collapsed onto the bed, pulled at our clothes until there was nothing to prevent our hands from roaming freely. We got each other off quickly, barely needing anything more than a touch to bring us crashing down. I laid there for some time, confused at what I had felt.

Phoebe leaned against her elbow and asked me archly if I was still afraid now that I had seen the enemy. I did not reply. Once my head hit the pillow I was fast asleep.

Two days later, I got up at about six in the morning and, leaving Phoebe fast asleep in our bed, stole downstairs to take a turn about the small garden off the back parlor. Madame Roux's desire to keep me away from her clients prevented me from enjoying it during working hours, but it was early enough that I might snatch a few moments outside before everyone awoke.

I opened the parlor door and saw, to my surprise, a girl sprawled across Madame Roux's little wingback chair, fast asleep. She had been left there the night before when her friends abandoned her for more... inviting beds upstairs with the brothel's whores. Ah, this was the first time I had ever laid eyes on our Rinna. The girl had always been a lightweight, despite her insistence that she could outdrink anyone, as you may well remember, my dear Taliesen. She had passed out on the chair before getting the chance to indulge in the brothel's more exotic pleasures. On the table the punch bowl and glasses were still strewn about, evidence of the drunken revel that had taken place only a few hours ago.

I drew nearer and looked at the sleeping creature before me. She was nineteen, her chestnut curls tangled all about her head where it rested against the back of the chair. The pink flush of alcohol still colored her pale cheeks, making her features appear soft and sweet. Her eyes, closed in sleep, were beautifully bordered with long lashes and her vermillion lips pouted and swelled to the touch. The shirt she wore was halfway unbuttoned, giving me the perfect view of her cleavage. She was dressed like the dashing rogue from the novels I loved to read: tall boots, leather vest, feathered hat. She looked like a pirate, or a highway robber. How could I not fall hopelessly in love?

You've always suspected that we shared a history. When I returned to Antiva City as a full-fledged Crow, you introduced her to me as our new partner and from the way you paraded her about you made it clear that the two of you had slept together. You were such a horrible, preening peacock. What a terrible shock it must have been for you when suddenly Rinna threw her arms around me and kissed me passionately. Poor Taliesen, you didn't know who you should be more jealous of. Me for kissing Rinna, or Rinna for kissing _me_. Ah, but we made it up to you, didn't we? We wore you out, trying to keep up with us. We loved you.

I reached out to gently shake her shoulder and she started, looking a little wildly at first, and then said with a voice that struck me through the heart. "What time is it?"

I told her and offered to fetch her a blanket, lest she catch cold. On this she thanked me with a sweetness that only belied her beauty, but she was soon out of the chair and bowing with a flourish. "I am Princess Rinnala," she stated, listing only slightly and still hungover. "But you, my lovely, may call me Rinna." I knew that name. My lessons on politics served me well. She was the daughter of an elven opera singer and our own Prince Estevan, himself a halfblood. As such, her features were far more elven than human, almost indistinguishable from the rest of our kind. A group of rebels known as the _Rosso Noche_ conspired to overthrow the king and put her on the throne. It was a scandalous plot and she had been the target of several assassination attempts already. Oh, not because she was a bastard. Hardly a king or queen in the history of Antiva could claim to be legitimate. She was an elf. Not like her father; Prince Estevan may have been a halfblood, but he looked human. Rinna did not and that was unforgivable.

Rinna seemed to be under the impression that I had been sent by Madame Roux to... make up for lost time, so to speak. She reached out and pulled me into a kiss, her breath reeking of alcohol and I, completely caught unprepared, fell into it. She pulled back with a lascivious grin and whispered, "Come back to my manor with me. I've been looking for a cicisbeo, someone to hang onto my arm when my presence is required at court, and you are so pretty. All the other nobles will be so jealous of me. I will see to it that you are properly cared for."

She was drunk, on power and wealth just as much on the wine. All of the nobility kept courtesans and mistresses in splendid rooms off the main wing of their own homes. And Rinna was going to prove that she was just as noble as the rest of them. She wanted it all: the grand houses, the fine horses, pretty people to warm her bed, and power. Real power. At that moment, I was simply something to be checked off of her list. Neither one of us knew of the love that would grow between us.

Here I thought was my chance for freedom! What a fool I was, to think that a mere princess could protect me from the Antivan Crows. My time with Madame Roux would eventually come to an end and I knew that I would soon be sent back to my masters. You must think me a great fool to run off with someone I had only just met, but it was an opportunity that I had to take. I would not go back, I would not become a Crow. I readily agreed and the two of us quickly scurried out of the house and into the dark morning.

She pulled me into a carriage and although the driver was somewhat puzzled at the fact that seven young, rowdy nobles had stumbled from his coach and into the brothel, but only one returned and with a prostitute in her arms. Still, he had his orders and he dared not disobey a princess. He took off, driving us out of the city and into the country. That was the first time I ever saw Antiva's rolling green hills and lush forests that were so praised by the poets. I was not impressed. I am a city elf through and through, and Rinna was far more pleasing to look at. We cuddled together, giggling at our daring escape -- what children we were! -- and made plans.

It was midday before we reached the manor. The majordomo took one look at me and knew what was expected of him. He turned down the bed in the master suite, brought up refreshments, and then left me to Rinna's tender mercies. She had just slipped the bolt into the door before turning and launching herself onto the bed, curling up next to me and kissing me, hard and feverish. Her impatience would not suffer to undress me any more than pulling down my trousers and smallclothes. I was already hard, overcome with knowledge of what was about to happen.

She pulled off her shirt and vest, before taking my hands and placing them upon her breasts. I was transfixed by the bare, white flesh bouncing in front of me, but my restless roving did not sate her and she was soon naked and climbing up and straddling my waist. The feel of her -- wet and hot and tight -- sinking down upon me nearly did me in right there. I managed to hold out, but not for long. We had barely gotten started before I was coming, jerking so hard that I nearly unseated her and had to hold on tightly to her hips. I am sure you are laughing at me right now, but tell me: what was your first time like then? I was a virgin after all. She frowned, confused and still wanting as she pulled herself away from me. "I thought a whore would last longer than that," she said as she went to fetch a rag to clean herself up with.

I threw an arm over my face to hide that horrible scarlet blush I used to get whenever I was embarrassed. I'm glad the Crows have since beaten that out of me. "I'm not a whore," I murmured into the crook of my elbow. "Not really. I had never... I'm a..." I couldn't say it. I wasn't even sure what it was I wanted to confess. That I had been a virgin or that I was a Crow. Both seemed equally horrible at that moment. After several long minutes of silence, I cautiously peeked at her from beneath my arm to see a very peculiar expression on her face. Surprise and guilt and something like... reverence.


	3. Chapter 3

Rinna had a very definite idea of who and what she wanted to be: the princess-cavalier, the rakish adventurer, the cool and impenetrable cynic. Too bad she was none of these things. In Rinna's mind, a good adventurer should be able to drink anyone under the table, but she was lucky if she managed to make it past her second glass. A good adventurer should be a talented horsewoman, able to ride and jump with the best of them, but Rinna was terrified of the beasts. Not that she would ever admit to it. A good adventurer could never be swayed by childish fairy tales such as true love. Adventurers were always pessimists, Rinna said, that way they were never disappointed. She would strut around in her feathered hat and leather boots, and tell such grandiose lies about herself that you almost believed she could be all of these things. The cavalier, the adventurer, the cynic. But you and I both know that beneath the clothes and attitude beat the heart of a romantic. She had discovered me in a brothel, and whereas most others would assume that my pretenses to virginity were only apocryphal, simply a far-fetched excuse used to cover up my own lack of finesse, she readily believed it and smothered me with kisses. I did not know it then, but I was slowly taking shape in her mind, becoming something more than just the pretty whore that she could show off to her peers. She was creating a story in her head and I was now a major player walking across the stage. Just as she imagined herself to be the dashing, roguish princess who would one day take her rightful throne, I was now the Tragic Damsel whom she had just rescued. Our flight from the brothel was transformed into a daring escape. Forgotten was the fact that I had to hold on to her elbow, lest she stumble drunkenly into a chair, or that I had to shush her several times because she could no longer control the volume of her own voice. No, she preferred the story she had concocted, the one in which she was a hero. Throwing me bodily over her shoulder, fighting off legions of guards with only her sword and her wits, while Madame Roux -- now sporting an eyepatch -- cursed her. It was a bit insulting, really, but you know what she was like. She should have been an actress, like her mother.

Still, it was nice to be thought of as something other than a thing to be used, a weapon, a Crow. With her, I was a person. The person she imagined me being may not have matched reality, but she respected me and she loved me and I mattered. Besides, who was Zevran anyway? Zevran was whatever the Crows wanted him to be. Zevran was the assassin. Zevran was the whore. Zevran laughed at everything and nothing, because what else could he do? I would have done anything to keep Rinna from finding out who I really was.   


We spent the whole afternoon until supper in a continuous circle of kissing, toying, and delightful teasing. Once supper was brought up, we made a table and cloth out of the bed and sheets. Rinna sent the servants away and fed me herself. For my part, I was so enchanted with my fortune, so amazed by the comparison between the life that Rinna led and that of Madame Roux and her whores that I wondered at how I could have mistaken the brothel to be anything more than a cheap hotel with only the barest veneer of respectability. Here, I thought, the Crows would never be able to touch me. I was sixteen years old. I have yet to meet anyone who is sixteen years old and not a complete fool.   


We lay together that night, overspent and satisfied, and swiftly fell into the arms of sleep. I clung to her and thought: _It would not be so bad, belonging to her._  I have always belonged to someone. What do I know of freedom? But if I could choose my master, it would be Rinna. A thousand times over, it will always be Rinna.   


And if it cannot be Rinna, then it will be no one. If I am to die on this mission then at least I can say I will finally know what freedom is.  


I awoke first late the next morning. I observed my lover sleeping deeply next to me and I softly disengaged myself from her arms, scarcely daring to breathe for fear of shortening her repose. Her shirt had been twisted up, the covers kicked down in the sultry heat of the weather, and I could not refuse myself the pleasure of feasting my sight on that beauty now lying almost entirely naked before me. Oh, I could paint her figure as I see it now, cut into my memory and forever marked by her. A face without fault, glowing with all the opening bloom and freshness of youth. The parting of a ruby-painted pout, exhaling air sweeter and purer than what it drew in. A neck exquisitely turned, chestnut hair curling all around her. Her breasts rose and heaved with each breath and I yearned to lean down and kiss each vermillion summit.   


But everything must come to an end. She turned in the listlessness of sleep, her shirt falling down and covering her finely made  form.   


I laid back down and let my hands wander over me, down to my rapidly stirring cock. My fingers stroked over the flesh, teasing myself with thoughts of Rinna, of her body and what she had done to mine. I closed my eyes, my touches light and soft, and I only opened them again when I heard Rinna shift beside me. I saw her resting on her elbow, watching me in rapt fascination. She gently inquired how I had rested, her gaze never wavering from my cock. I had scarcely been given time to answer and then she was on me, her lips bruising in rapture-kisses, lighting a fire that radiated through every part of me. Her hand was now wrapped around my own and she worked with a fevered intensity.   


I did much better this time when she finally grew tired of her playing and, pushing me down with her small hands braced against my chest, sank down upon me. She grinned and laughed and moaned as I bucked into her, clawing into my shoulders like a vaquero trying to keep seated on a wild, untamed horse. The pleasure suffocated me, and each touch brought me to greater heights. It was too violent to last long, too hurried and too chaotic. The heat swelled and soon boiled over, and we sank against each other, the fire put out for a time. Our room was hazy with lust and by the time we roused ourselves from the bed, the low, sweet warmth of the morning sun had been consumed by the afternoon without us knowing.   


In our calmer intervals, Rinna told me of her childhood. She had grown up in a one-room apartment above Rialto's infamous opera house. Despite the cramped quarters, it was sumptuously furnished and filled with priceless trinkets given to Rinna's mother by her long-time lover, Prince Estevan. Rinna had always known he was her father and she grew up educated and well cared for. Had she looked more human, it would have been simple enough to petition the king to have her legitimized and named his heir. But she did not look human and the king would never grant such a request. She was undeniably an elf, and therefore  she would forever be a bastard.  She could become the mistress of a noble, or a famous artisan like her mother, but she would not be able to inherit her father's title or his estate. Or, so it was assumed. No one could anticipate that Prince Estevan would eventually _marry_ his elven opera singer, thereby automatically conferring legitimacy on any natural children they may have  conceived prior to the marriage. Who ever heard of a prince marrying an elf? Preposterous! And yet he did it, which meant Rinna was now his sole heir and a possible contender for the throne.   


I told her half-truths. My mother was Dalish, my father a carpenter, and when he died she became a prostitute. I did not tell her that I had been sold to the Crows, that I belonged to them, that I was training to become one.   


She believed me and I thought myself very clever.   


I was able to get away with the lie for several weeks, until an assassin came for us. To this day I do not know who the intended target was: Rinna or myself. Perhaps both. I spent two weeks at the manor, lost in a haze of lust and romance, but it was the little things that broke through the all-consuming fire that surrounded Rinna and myself. A window left open. Rinna's favorite dog suddenly going lame overnight. The majordomo misplacing his set of keys.   


All of these things put me on edge, the anxiety twisting inside me like a knife. I saw danger everywhere. Rinna knew something was wrong, but I dared not speak about it. I would come up with some excuse whenever she asked. I was worried I would embarrass her in front of the entire court or I was having bad dreams about the brothel, something like that. Then one evening as we sat down for supper, a maid I had never seen before entered the dining room, carrying the silver tray that held our first course. I reacted without even thinking. I knocked the tray from her hands, spilling soup everywhere, and brought my fist crashing against her throat.   


Rinna screamed at me, demanding to know what I was thinking, but the sounds were quickly cut off when she saw the maid withdraw a knife from her apron and swing it at me with all the precision and expertise of a master assassin. I was still a Chick and she was a full-fledged Crow. I quickly realized that I was in over my head as the assassin swiped at me with the poisoned blade. I dodged her swings, plucking a carving knife from the table as I leapt away, but she quickly knocked it from my grasp and kicked out, catching me across the face and sending me sprawling. She kicked me again, this time in the side, bruising my ribs and forcing me onto my stomach. She straddled my waist, kneeling on one hand and pinning my other arm behind me. I could see the glint of the knife in front of my face, coming around to slice my throat.   


But then I heard the  _ ping!_ of a crossbow and the knife fell silently onto the rug, the assassin slumping over until she was lying dead beside me, an arrow lodged in her skull. Rinna stood in the doorway, the crossbow still poised and ready to fire another, glancing around in case a second assassin revealed himself. "Fancy a holiday in Val Royeaux?" She asked me and I grinned.   


We left that night.   


Rinna was often silly and flighty, but stupid she was not. There was keen intelligence hidden behind those beautiful eyes. My cover had been blown. She knew I was not simply a prostitute. But for all her intelligence, Rinna was a romantic, no matter what she claimed. We cuddled together in the carriage as the coachman drove us through the night, and I heard her sigh softly, "You're an assassin, aren't you? You were sent to get close to me, to kill me. But you fell in love." And in her mind I cast off the robes of the Tragic Damsel and donned a new costume, that of the Anti-Hero, the Reformed Assassin, Saved by the Love of a Good Woman. It was not the truth, but I was willing to play the role. For her.   


The suite we rented was very grand and looked out across Val Royeaux's Summer Bazaar. We spent two months there in a dizzy whirlwind of plays, operas, masquerades, and every diversion that city offered. All of these delights were new to me and I drank them in like a starving man. Rinna was delighted at being able to play the part of teacher, and she would lean in close to my ear to whisper who the actors were, the scandalous rumors circulating around the author and his patron, the meaning behind the story. She instructed me on the finer points of the nobility, helping me to divest myself of my low-class drawl and mimic the accent of an Antivan prince. My manners -- which I had started to improve while still in Madame Roux's care -- were now perfected and if it wasn't for my ears, I might have been able to pass for a noble. But the lords and ladies whose circles we moved in would never accept us no matter how fine our airs, and we delighted in shocking their delicate sensibilities.   


But like all great passions, it soon came to an end.   


I was reluctant to leave Rinna's side. That attack had taught me that nowhere in Thedas is safe from the Crows and I knew we were just as vulnerable in Orlais as we were in Antiva, but Rinna will do what she damn well pleases and woe to the man who thinks to stop her. Rinna had gone out to do a little shopping and when she did not return that evening, I knew the Crows had taken her. Fear snaked through me and I prayed she was still alive, but it was a prayer without hope. I went out in search of her but could find no trace, which only confirmed my suspicions that she was dead. When I was finally forced to admit to defeat, I returned to our rooms and there was Guildmaster Talav sitting in a little chair beside the furnace, fire blazing despite the summer heat, and waiting for me.   


I was certain I was going to die then. Death is the only suitable punishment for disobedience. You can imagine my surprise when our guildmaster commended me on taking out the assassin the Crows had sent. She was a formidable rival, a prodigy from House Valisti, and Guildmaster Talav was pleased that she was no longer around to bother him. Her death would hurt House Valisti, and improve House Arainai's standing at the same time. No, the guildmaster said, he would not kill me. I had been useful to him, and House Arainai had invested too much money in me. I felt myself relax, just a little.   


And then he struck.   


I was on the ground before I had even known what had happened. There was a cord wrapped around my throat, cutting into me, choking me. I almost didn't feel the blows the guildmaster rained down on my head, so desperate was I to breathe. "I won't kill you," he whispered into my ear. "I'll just clip your wings." He released the cord and, standing up, kicked me hard in the side. I heard one of my ribs crack and I curled into myself while he wandered over to the fireplace. He pulled a hot poker from the fire and, pulling my shirt up over my head, pressed the searing iron into my flesh. I tried to scream, but the blood from my broken nose caught in my throat and I choked and gagged as the room became filled with the stench of cooked meat.   


I passed out at some point. When I awoke, I found myself tied up in the back of a wagon, every inch of my body screaming in agony. Along the delicate skin of my back, Guildmaster Talav had branded the image of a bird in flight into my flesh.   


After several weeks of rough riding, I found myself back in Antiva City. The guildmaster had not spoken to me throughout the entire journey and I dared not ask what happened to Rinna. Or what he planning to do with me if not kill me, for that matter. We drove past House Arainai's headquarters and the dormitory that we had grown up in, and I was suddenly consumed with a desire to see you, my dear Taliesen. I wanted to be safe and you always made me feel safe. But the little wagon turned, taking me farther and farther away from you until the dormitory disappeared behind a row of shantyhouses, and I knew then that wasn't going to happen.   


The guildmaster drove us to a run-down brothel managed by a woman known only as La Signora. Here, the guildmaster would be able to keep an eye on me. It was decided that Madame Roux was too soft on her charges, and that La Signora would provide the discipline needed to turn out strong, loyal Crows. She was a middle-aged woman with one of those trivial, ordinary faces you meet everywhere, unheeded and unmentioned. In her youth, she had been a prostitute, borne several children and sold them all to anyone who had two coppers to his name. Without another word, the guildmaster pulled me from the wagon -- still tied up -- and left me on her doorstep.   


La Signora looked down on me and was thoroughly unimpressed by what she saw. Probably because even after a few weeks my face and body was still bruised, my nose tender, and the brand was a lurid red from infection. She cut me loose of my bonds and half-dragged me inside. Three whores rushed to my side to help me up the stairs and put me to bed. They changed the bandages on my wounds and gave me tea mixed with a bit of elfroot to drink. I quickly fell asleep, too tired and pained to stay awake.   


When I next woke it was to the sound of the door being shut and the bolt sliding in. I lifted my head from the pillow and saw a strange man standing at the foot of the bed. It was dark, the moonlight shining through the window did little to illuminate the room. I believe he was human, or perhaps a tall elf. I did nothing to stop him when he crawled into the bed.   


Despite the half-clinging fever nightmares, I was aware of what was about to happen. How could I not be? This is what the Crows intended for me to learn and I was not willing to double-cross them a second time. I was grateful to be given a second chance. The man did not bother to undress me, just pushed up my nightshirt to my chin. I was completely naked underneath it; better for the whores to tend to my wounds. His restless hands roved over my body, down my sides, skittering over the bandages wrapped around the brand, until they gripped my thighs. I knew this would happen, had accepted it, but my fears made me mechanically close my legs. He persisted, worming his hand between them and pushing them open.   


I felt exposed to the examination of his eyes and hands, quiet and unresisting. When I first felt the touch of his fingers, I nearly jumped out of my skin, a cry escaping my lips before I could stop it. I remember the balmy oil he used smelled like the elfroot the whores had coated my bruises in, and in a way that helped calm me. The experience became almost clinical in my mind. Two fingers at first, scissoring quickly, and barely a minute had past before he was pulling them out again and unbuttoning his trousers. I felt cheated then; Orlando's Qunari had taken his time, seemed to enjoy the act of preparation just as much as the sex. I dared not complain, however, though I wish now I had.   


I felt his cock press against me, the head barely breaching my entrance before it became stuck. He huffed, continuing to push, and I screamed with each aborted thrust. The pain was immense. Eventually he pulled out, swearing, and pushed his fingers back in, stretching the tight muscle loose. He quickly grew tired of this chore and pulled them out,  coating his cock in more oil and mixing it with my blood. He drove forward with fury, breaking through and forcibly deepening his strokes until he was seated to the hilt. The rough stretching of that soft passage by a hard, thick body was intolerably painful. I shoved the balled up ends of my nightshirt into my mouth, biting down until my jaw ached. He began to move faster, harder, tearing and rending me with a kind of rage until he gave one last violent, merciless lunge. He collapsed on top of me, his body an unbearable weight caging me in, and I wanted to scream and hit him until he moved, and finally, thankfully, he did. He pulled out and my thighs were instantly coated in a stream of blood that flowed from my wounded, torn passage. I fainted, though why it should be then when it was all over instead of taking me during the act itself, I do not know. But I was glad of it. Anything to stop the pain.


	4. Chapter 4

I spent several months locked inside the brothel, growing increasingly despondent. I did what was required of me, serviced those who were brought to my room, picked up a few tricks here and there, but I was little more than a sleepwalker. My wounds were completely healed; even the brand had stopped its fester, but the idol of my soul had been torn from me. I did not care what the next day would bring or the day after that. I was lost in a sea of monotony, too consumed with my own misery and apathy to do more than exist, until Agostino Arainai arrived to visit me. 

You may remember him. He was a Talon from our House, and though he did not often trouble himself with the training of recruits, he was terribly angry when he heard what had transpired between myself and Guildmaster Talav. My good looks were too valuable to be spoiled and Talav had taken a branding iron to my flesh. Anyone who looked at my back would know instantly that I was a Crow. Had it been you, Taliesen, or any other common assassin, it would not have mattered. But I was being trained in seduction, and such markings would only make my job more difficult. 

When Agostino entered my room, I was on my feet in an instant. I had never seen this man before, but I could instantly recognize a Crow. He looked nothing like the sort of men and women who usually patroned La Signora's establishment; they were little more than common laborers and mercenaries. No, this was a man who was used to wielding power. Upon entering the room, the Crow made a very civil bow. There was a gentleness to Agostino's movements, but it was offset by his hard, glittering dark eyes that stared starkly out from his handsome face. He was well made, about forty, and dressed in plain clothes except for the large diamond ring on one of his fingers, the luster of which seemed to dance in the hazy afternoon sunlight. He introduced himself and spoke at length that the punishment meted out by Guildmaster Talav had not been approved by the rest of the senior members of House Arainai. The Crows had invested too much money to see serviceable goods damaged in such a way. He bade me to remove my shirt so that he could examine the wound himself. 

I did as I was ordered. His hands gripped by torso and he twisted and turned me to his desire as he inspected the brand from every angle. "It is not so large, it can be disguised with tattoos," he said, mostly to himself. Then, so slowly I almost didn't realize it, the atmosphere changed. His cold, apathetic hands turned tender. They stroked down my sides, light and feather soft, his eyes were no longer fixed to the brand but now roving over every inch of my flesh. He kissed me and I neither resisted nor complied. I stood still, uncaring of what was to happen. He took me to bed, arranged me as he pleased, and it was not until several minutes later that I came back to myself and found him buried in me. It was not painful, but neither did I feel the least bit of pleasure. A death-cold corpse could scarcely have less life or sense in it. As soon as he had pacified his passion, he got off and, after fixing the disorder of his clothes, he left. 

I had assumed that would be the end of it. It wasn't as though I made any sort of impression; I was not charming or seductive or even self-aware, really. I was little more than a doll. So you can imagine my surprise when a large retinue of servants arrived at the brothel the next morning with an Orlesian tailor at the forefront. I watched with a twinge of amusement as he deftly evaded La Signora's questions and demands until his eyes fell upon me. "Ah, there he is! The little trick!" And then he was by my side, winking and nudging me and going on about how clever I was to seduce Agostino. For the second time in as many days, I found myself being assessed and appraised as he studied my form and body. "I think dark colors to play up on your mystique, leather and silk, oh, yes." His name was Floris and I had assumed him to be an invert. I was rather surprised to find out he had bedded almost all of the women who were currently flocking around him, taking notes and holding up swatches of fabric to my face, to which Floris would either nod in approval or toss the offending piece of cloth out the window. 

He clapped his hands. "It is decided. Your new wardrobe will be completed within the week. Now, get going, Signore Arainai has a schedule to keep." Then I was being pushed out the door by at least a dozen hands and I heard La Signora's shrill complaint as I went, "Don't I get any compensation for him?" I was all but carried into a carriage, which drove me to a grand little villa just across from the Opera House. Before I could ask anyone what was going on, one of the servant girls escorted me out of the carriage, through the villa, and into a suite of rooms that were bedecked in gold and marble and peacock feathers. Only then was I informed that these were to be my new lodgings where I would be tending exclusively to the needs of Agostino Arainai. At the time, it did not strike me as strange or frightening that I had, essentially, just been kidnapped and forced into becoming Agostino's paramour; I belonged to the Crows, they could do whatever they wished to me. Freedom was a luxury that I was not permitted, a lesson I had been taught well. All I thought was: "At least the view is better this time." 

I was left to my own devices then and it was not until late that evening that a maid came to fetch me for supper. Agostino was already sitting at the table, but when I entered the room he stood and bowed and gestured for me to take a seat next to him. Presently a neat and elegant supper was introduced, along with a bottle of wine straight from Val Royeaux. As we ate, he informed me that he had decided to personally oversee my education. I could not be expected to learn the talents I needed while servicing thugs and stonemasons and costermongers. I needed a skilled master to teach me, and who better than him? I nearly broke into fits of laughter as he spoke. I wonder if he truly believed that everything he did was to 'help' me or if he was merely parroting some convenient excuse. Still, he needn't have pretended with me. The giggles that threatened to erupt from my throat took me quite by surprise; it had been so long since I had laughed. By then, I had gotten down almost half a partridge and three or four glasses of wine and I wondered if anything extraordinary had been put into my glass for me to act this way. I had been drinking hard brandy since the age of 10, a couple of glasses of wine should not have affected me so. 

Agostino, who had been watching and perhaps even brought on this change, knew too well not to seize it. He thrust the table away from us and took hold of me, tugging and pulling until he had divested me of my shirt. His frantic movements only increased my amusement and I could no longer swallow back the laughter, but he soon gave me greater occasion to exclaim when he slipped his hand into my trousers. My giggles soon gave way to moans. A heat ran like fire through me; I felt quite out of my mind. I did not notice when Agostino removed the rest of my clothes or when he had unbuttoned his trousers. He removed his hand from me, now worked open and ready to receive him, and I leaned up on my elbow to look at what I was to take. His cock stood stiff and straight, flushed red and rooted into a thicket of curls, which covered his belly to the navel. He pushed me back down on the dining room floor and positioned himself, pushing until he had driven himself flush against me. 

The first time I had barely paid attention to the proceedings, but now I felt a rush of animal lust snake through me. I was beyond reason, I lost all restraint, too lost in the strange, sticky fog that had come over me. I drove up to meet his fury, hard and fast until I could feel the beginnings of bruises blossoming up my arse and thighs. He came quickly, but my fires were still burning hot-- too hot. Agostino scarcely gave himself or me breathing time before I was being flipped over, landing hard on the stone floor and being taken from behind. Eventually we managed to make our way upstairs and into bed, but my new master seemed determined to prove that he had all the vigor of a man my age and kept me in constant exercise till dawn. Agostino, content with having the day break upon his triumphs, finally pulled himself away from me, leaving me to fall into a deep sleep. 

Life with Agostino was certainly no trial. Although he was often distant and treated me something of a servant at times, he kept me in comfort and lavished gifts upon me. It did not stir any feelings of love within me, but it did force a kind of grateful fondness that was something like love. A distinction that not everyone has the luxury to make. I was now established as a kept cicisbeo, well lodged, with a very sufficient allowance, and tricked out in the most fashionable clothes. I had a servant of my own to command, a girl named Maria, fresh from the country, and still wide-eyed and innocent enough to confuse me for a noble and married to Agostino. We were the same age and yet I had done and seen so much more than her that I could not help but feel that I was decades older. Occasionally, Matteo would also make himself useful around the villa. He was Agostino's bastard and had just recently finished his schooling at the Abbey of St. Havard. His father had wanted him to go into banking and managed to secure an apprenticeship with one of the merchant princes out of Treviso. Matteo had refused to go along with his father's plan and, as punishment, Agostino had him doing odd jobs fit only for servants. 

All in all, life was rather pleasant. We hosted suppers at the villa, where Agostino brought several senior Crows to dine along with their companions of pleasure, their mistresses and cicisbeos. I soon became friends with a number of them; most of them had been nothing more than common streetwalkers before they had taken up with their Crows, one or two were actors who were patronized by several wealthy men and women, of which their Crows were but one of their lovers, and one woman was actually the repudiated wife of a Fereldan bann. She had fled to Antiva to save her own life when her husband discovered she was half-elven, and, with no other source of income, became a courtesan. I was the only one who was a Crow myself. We often visited one another and mimicked, as near as we could, all the follies and impertinences of people of quality, nobles who trifle away their time without its ever entering into their little heads that there cannot exist on Thedas anything more silly, more flat, more insipid and worthless than their way of life.

Amongst these kept concubines, I hardly knew one who did not detest his keeper. They would seize upon any chance of infidelity they could safely get away with, made a game of these small revenges against their Crows. I was rather surprised by this; at the time, I did not think that Agostino had done me any wrong. These concubines may have been poor or desperate before taking up with their Crows, but they knew the difference between slavery and freedom. They saw their masters as they were: tyrants. I lacked this perspective, as you do now. I hope that one day the scales will fall from your eyes and you will see that though the cage may be gilded, it is still a cage. 

It was seven months before I recognized Agostino as the monster he was. My seventeenth birthday had come and gone, and I had just returned to my lodgings after taking in an afternoon play. _Tita Andronica_ , if I remember correctly. A terribly written, bloody affair about a Tevinter noblewoman engaged in an endless cycle of revenge against an Avvar warrior-king. It had been universally panned by the critics, so of course I loved it. I swept upstairs to my own bedchamber, with no other thought than pulling off my cloak, when I heard Maria's voice call out and a sort of tussle, which raised my curiosity. My bedroom door was ajar when I knew I had closed it upon leaving, and I stole softly up to it to peek through the crack. 

The first sight that struck me was Agostino, pulling and hauling Maria towards a couch that stood in a corner of my bedroom. She was crying, "Please, ser, don't... leave me alone... Ser, my master may come home..." 

I pulled away quickly before I ended up signing both my own death warrant and Maria's by attacking a Talon of House Arainai. It did not occur to me until much later that Agostino had treated me much the same. What he had done to me was not rape in my mind-- I was training to be an assassin, I belonged to the Crows, they could do whatever they wanted to me. I didn't have a choice. But Maria was just a country peasant who had been put into _my_ care. I was responsible for her well-being. For him to do that to her was unconscionable and it sent a rage boiling through me. While the other concubines could satisfy themselves with their little infidelities, I was a Crow. Such petty revenges meant nothing. No, I was going to kill the bastard.


End file.
